


A Kingdom for a Stage

by ifigo



Series: C&A - Bleeding Love [1]
Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: F/M, I’m a slut for character development, and many many real-world references, clever self-satisfied sweetheart Arthur, clumsy flirting and metaphors and symbolism and fluff as a chaser, effervescent downcast nerd Catherine, featuring Catherine’s sisters, the Catherine/Arthur content the fandom needs and deserves, they’re soulmates lowkey, trying to encompass a thirty year relationship in the first night, y’all I read Shakespeare for this and did so much on google maps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifigo/pseuds/ifigo
Summary: What starts as a trip out to spite her mother transforms into the beginning of the greatest adventure of Catherine’s life - a night full of laughter, sound, hope, and something close to magic that makes her start to believe that maybe, just maybe, true love isn’t only for fairytales after all.Catherine Mountchristen-Windsor meets Arthur Fox. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Relationships: Arthur Fox/Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Series: C&A - Bleeding Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138205
Comments: 17
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is maybe honestly my favorite thing I've ever written - I love these characters, I loved working with what CMQ gave us to develop this story. 
> 
> Massive thanks to the person who beta'ed this and listens to me grumble about dukedoms and comma splices on a daily basis - I love you and owe you at least ten thousand words of adoration. 
> 
> This may look like two chapters but it is truly a one-shot with a short epilogue. I hope you enjoy reading!

**May 30, 1984**  
**Kensington Palace**

“Hey, Alice,” Catherine calls, swinging around the doorway of her sister’s room. She’s fresh out of a day of meetings at Buckingham, sporting a deep navy blue dress that brings out her eyes perfectly. Based on the kick in her step, the world isn’t ready for whatever she’s about to bring to the table. 

Princess Alice’s head pops up from the floor, where she’d been sorting through piles of blankets and old books, reddish-brown hair frizzing almost comically. She looks her sister up and down, evaluating the situation at hand. “You’re in a row with Mum,” she assesses. “And now you’re dragging me off somewhere as a distraction?”

Unsurprisingly, she is exactly correct. “You know me so well,” Catherine smirks, padding over and pulling her sister up off the expensive rugs. “The RSC is doing _Henry V_.”

She cocks an eyebrow, gripping Catherine’s hands tighter. “You want to watch a king of England complain about France for three hours? I thought you wanted a distraction.”

“It’s Shakespeare, it’s my _thing_ ,” Catherine stresses. Alice looks apprehensive. “Come on. Let me have this.” She smiles up at her, pleading with big kind eyes. 

The youngest princess sighs good-naturedly, shaking her head. “Alright, let’s go,” she relents. 

Catherine grins. “It starts at seven, so meet me downstairs at six,” she drops Alice’s hands before practically racing down the hall. “And put on a dress!”

\- - -

Three hours later and they’re in the royal box at the packed Cambridge Theatre, simple cocktail dresses donned and waiting for the performance to begin. They’d managed to avoid most of the fanfare of the crowd when they came in, choosing to sneak into the theatre from the back entrance at the last minute instead of encouraging interaction with the public. Catherine doesn’t like sneaking around, she usually enjoys getting to talk to real people, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel that bad. She needs one evening that belongs to only her and whoever she chooses to share it with. 

Nevertheless, the crowd below them is full of whispers, and every now and then someone glances curiously up at their box. Catherine smooths down the folds in her black chiffon dress and waves playfully at a pointing child over the wooden ledge, who giggles at the attention. Sometimes she really does love being a princess. 

Finally, the lights go down and the crowd goes silent. The curtain opens, revealing a scarce set.

The prologue is as expected: the chorus explains the situation and sets the scene, asking the audience to imagine not a stage but a grand cathedral for a war between two mighty kingdoms, and not simple actors but kings and warriors. _“A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene!”_ Catherine swears the actress playing the narrator glances at her, and she smiles. She has always loved that line. 

While Alice is simply here for the show and to indulge her sister, Catherine brought along a slight notebook and pen to take notes on any discrepancies between how she expected the play to be performed as she has understood it and how this company interprets it. She does have a doctorate to finish, after all. 

The play begins properly, the first scene consumed by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely gushing over the absent King Henry like schoolgirls instead of the well-respected political and religious figures they are. They explain his backstory; how he became very serious and duty-driven after the death of his father, how he is bright and can hold a knowledgeable conversation with anyone about anything. They conveniently lay out the foundations of the character so that the audience has a better grasp of his motives and history. Typical, but still poetic and lovely, covered in gorgeous language. 

The second scene commences: King Henry enters stage right, trailed by assorted nobles. 

And thus begins Princess Catherine’s undoing. 

Her brain short-circuits. The actor playing the title character is hot - point-blank, no argument, hot. While the faux leather armor isn’t necessarily doing him any favors, he doesn’t need it to: his broad shoulders and toned arms are on full display. As he takes long strides to center stage, he walks with a certain confidence in his step that Catherine knows from experience isn’t all an act. His sandy blond waves shine under the bright stage lights, highlighted by a golden crown. Even from up in the balcony, she can tell he’s got at least a foot of height on her. His voice is deep, and his speech is animated, strong jaw flexing with every word. 

Two lines into a monologue he looks at her, dark eyes practically glowing, and a smile teases at the corner of his mouth. 

_Dear God._

She pointedly ignores the hot blush she can feel rising in her cheeks. _Alright_ , Catherine thinks. _Alright alright alright_. And. Christ. Okay. Okay. He has to have a name. And she needs to know it, now. 

Catherine reluctantly tears her eyes off the stage to flip through her notebook and finds nothing in the darkness but empty pages. She grips Alice’s arm, whispering, “Did you get a programme?” 

She turns and shakes her head lightly, oblivious to Catherine’s plight. 

Swallowing, she turns back to the matter at hand, steeling herself. On the stage below, Henry V is talking with Canterbury. _Christ, his hands are nice_. “Keep it together lady,” she whispers under her breath. Alice raises an eyebrow at her, unperturbed. She sighs. 

This is going to be a long night. 

The next hour before the intermission simultaneously is the best time Catherine has ever had looking at a man and cannot go by fast enough. Her notes forgotten, she’s paying more attention to the play than she ever has any production before. _I’m watching this for the plot_ , she reminds herself. _The plot, not the hot nameless actor._

The plot is good, yeah, it’s Shakespeare, she lives off this stuff. But the scenes without the title character, while few, are rather dull. He lights up the stage effortlessly, capturing minds and hearts with a single phrase. Anything without him is just a touch dimmer, and it’s not just because of the high cheekbones. She wants a piece of his light. 

Catherine is so far gone by the time intermission hits that it isn’t until the lights come back up that she registers Alice left their box. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind, picking her notebook off the floor instead to scrawl halfhearted notes.

“I’ve got you a programme,” Alice says, settling back into her chair. 

Catherine snaps her notebook closed. “Oh my god, I love you.” She reaches for the pamphlet, flipping through the lists of future performances and production information to find the cast descriptions. 

Alice is leaning over her shoulder. “What’s got you in a twist?”

“Are you blind?” Catherine snaps, not looking up from the pages. “The lead actor is, well,” There’s no good way to put it. “He’s very attractive, and I simply wish to know his name.” 

Alice laughs, light and jingly. “Good luck with that, Cath. I’m not sure what your goal is.”

Catherine doesn’t dignify that with a response. Finally, she finds the right page: 

\- ARTHUR FOX ( _King Henry V_ ) is honoured to return to the Royal Shakespeare Company to tell this fantastic story every night with the best company. A relative newcomer, he graduated from the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts in 1980. Thanks to his amazing friends and family! Credits: _Much Ado About Nothing_ (Claudio, RSC); _The Mousetrap_ (Christopher Wren, St. Martin’s Theatre); _Barnum_ (James A. Bailey, London Palladium). -

So he’s attractive, talented, steadily employed, and - perhaps most importantly - in his mid-twenties. And she has a name for him now - Arthur Fox. Catherine smiles and tucks the programme into her notebook, the beginnings of a plan churning in her mind. 

She enjoys the rest of the performance, especially the end, where Arthur’s character professes his love and marries a French princess. What can she say, she’s a sap for a good declaration of love. It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that the princess is named Katherine. 

Eventually, a lifetime later, the narrator delivers the closing epilogue and the lights come up for the cast to give their final bows. Catherine gives a standing ovation, smiling at Arthur where he’s down in the middle of the line, hoping he’ll look up at her - and he does. And he smiles back. She laughs. 

The house begins to clear out. Time to put her plan into action. 

“Alice, I need your help,” she rounds on her sister, who’s peacefully getting ready to head home. She’s going to owe her one after this. “Can you convince the PPOs to take you home and trust that I’ll be okay on my own?” It’s a big ask, she knows. She’s been allowed to go off without security before, but only ever with well-known aristocratic friends, not with an unknown commoner she’s never spoken to. If she fucks this up, they’re both going to be in very hot water. 

Alice nods, slowly piecing everything together. “I most likely can, yes. Where are you going to be?”

_In his head in his bed_. “On the town. I’ll be home before dawn, I promise,” she pleads, glancing down at the now-empty stage. Hopefully he hasn't gone too far. “Please?”

Alice tracks her gaze to the stage and sighs, exasperated. “You’re going to turn me grey before I’m your age. Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Ali, I love you and I owe you,” Catherine grins. She reaches behind her to grab her clutch, preparing to hustle downstairs. 

“I love you too, obviously,” Alice says, following her out into the scarcely populated balcony hall. The security is getting closer from their perch on the bench down the way. “But if you’re not home by eight tomorrow I will have to turn you in.”

“I know,” she nods. The building is getting quieter, she’s running out of time to go unnoticed. “See you tomorrow!” 

Catherine dips away from her sister just as the security reaches her, hearing Alice make some excuse as she all but runs to the back stairwell. “She’ll be back at Kensington before dawn. And while I am not entirely positive about where she is going, I know my sister is clever,” Alice states, daring the guards to question her authority. “Your only other option is to put the whole of London under lockdown. Let the princess handle herself.” 

The door to the stairwell clicks shut behind her, and finally, the evening is Catherine’s for the taking. She pauses at the top, taking inventory in the darkness: clutch, kitten heels, mid-length black cocktail dress, brown bob falling in loose curls. Yeah, she thinks. This will work nicely. She makes her way down the stairs, stopping once she reaches the door labeled _Backstage_. 

Teasing open the door, the silence in the air is filled with the bustle of bodies and voices in post-show celebration, hustling around backstage, getting undressed and re-dressed and cheering, flashes of sweaty leather and bursts of hairspray making the air thick and hot. 

Thank goodness she’s the primary patron of the RSC - she knows her way around a backstage area. 

Catherine edges her way into the fray, keeping her head low as she pushes through the crowd past the small manager’s office and towards the stairs up to the main dressing rooms. She takes the wooden steps two at a time, praying she can find him before somebody else finds her. Finally, she reaches the line of dressing rooms, darting past and reading bold-print block names on old blue doors before she finds it: Arthur Fox. 

She plants herself - two feet on the floor, shoulders back - and knocks. 

Only then does she realize that she doesn’t have a plan. 

“Just a moment!” A voice - his deep, smooth voice - calls from the other side of the door. Finally, it clicks open. 

Arthur is standing with one hand still on the door, looking like he just sprang fully-formed off a magazine cover. She was right; he is a lot taller than her. He’s abandoned the period costume in favor of black ripped jeans highlighting dark Chelsea boots and a short sleeve indigo Chambray - casual and roguishly handsome, but not courageous enough to offend the passing guest. His short sandy hand is tousled into fluffy waves, framing strong features smudged with leftover stage makeup. 

He lays eyes on her and his smile freezes, blinking at Catherine for a solid ten seconds before bold recognition floods his face.

She may be thrilled, but he looks downright terrified. Maybe surprise wasn’t the best idea. 

“Um, hello,” he begins, eloquently. He looks around frantically, probably hoping someone will tell him if he should bow or not or just what the hell is happening in general, but they’re alone at the end of the hall. He finally snaps his head into place. “Princess Catherine?” he asks, bemused. He runs a hand through his hair in distress and her knees threaten to give out. There's no ring on his finger.

“That’s me, hi,” she starts. “And you’re Arthur Fox, yes?” He nods. There are voices down the walkway, laughter from some of the cast in their dressing room. She really can’t afford to get caught right now. “May I come in?”

Not exactly in a position to argue, Arthur swings his head around to take one last glance down the long hall, before stepping aside and gesturing into the room. “Yeah, of- of course,” he stumbles. 

The dressing room is small but cozy, with a worn brown sofa on one side and a long table and giant mirror lined with lights and little pictures on the other. He stands in the middle of it all, hands behind his back, waiting as she closes the door behind her. 

The noise from the hall and the wings below them is muffled into near silence, and she is intimately aware that they are very much alone. And, from the way Arthur takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, he is as well. Carole King spins on in the corner. 

“I apologize for the abrupt intrusion,” she says, trying to be smooth and mentally cursing herself for being so… aggressively royal. But if she knows anything, it’s how to say things without saying them. She takes a step into the room, making very intentional eye contact. “I wanted to congratulate you on the performance in person.”

“Thank you very much, Your Highness,” he straightens, smiling politely as he watches her watch him. “That means a lot coming from you.” His eyes are less innocent, curiosity gleaming in the mirror lights. Well, it’s not every day a princess appears at your dressing room alone and locks the door. Time to get them on the same page. 

She can’t help but smile back, looking as arch and roguish as she knows how. “You may call me Catherine if you’d like.” That’s out of protocol, that’s so far out of protocol and she’s only known this man for three minutes, but, granted, so is everything else she’s done since she left her sister behind in the box. She can’t find it in herself to care. 

He smiles tentatively, and when Catherine looks up into his deep hazel eyes something clicks into place. 

“Alright, Catherine,” he tests, staring intently. She may melt into a puddle on the floor. Rest in peace Princess Catherine, died because a hot man looked at her too long. “Do you have a favorite part?” 

“Of the play? I’m quite partial to the first scene of act four. The prologue is lovely as well, from my perspective,” she says, looking away from him for a moment, fiddling with her necklace as she examines the pictures tacked to the mirror, before sweeping back to his gaze. “But tonight, I particularly enjoyed watching the princess be swept off her feet by the handsome and clever young bachelor.” 

“Oh, yes. I love that part,” he leads, previously passable innocence positively abandoned. Something in the set of his jaw has shifted - she’s not the only one here with very specific ideas. It’s been a hectic twenty-four years; she knows when a man is interested. “Although I’ve been interested in knowing who she really is, beyond being a princess,” he muses. 

She welcomes his gaze, taking another step closer to admire the dramatic shadows falling over his face. “Do you have anyplace to be tonight?” 

His smart mouth grows into a smirk. “Well, I suppose it depends.” 

“On?” 

“Where you’d like me to be tonight, Catherine.”

\- - -

It was Arthur’s idea: he sneaks them out of the theatre unseen, she leads him five blocks south to the Café de Paris, where she’ll be recognized but no one will give a damn. The conversation never stops. 

“Is this something you do often?” Arthur asks as they rush past the midnight lovers in Leicester Square. 

“Abandon my security to run off into the inner city with a man I only just met?” she smiles back at him. “No, I do not do this often.”

He throws his head back and laughs, letting Catherine pull him down the street by the hand. 

They get into the club with ease, leaving their coats at the door, the booming bass and jumble of bodies swallowing them into anonymity as soon as they enter the ballroom. The crowd parts naturally as they head down the hall, emerging from the fray onto the mezzanine surrounding the packed dance floor below. The lights are dimmed, the shadows interrupted only by the flashing soft white beam through the slight smoke. On the stage below, a live cover band is blaring out non-stop hits for the cover of a hundred bodies moving to the beat. For once in her life, no one pays Catherine a second glance. 

The balcony is much calmer than the floor below, full of groups in low back chairs surrounding squat tables, bottles and glasses in hand as they laugh and shout. 

Miraculously, there’s a free table in a dark corner. Catherine takes a seat and sends Arthur to the bar down the walkway for drinks. 

Catherine takes a deep breath, smoothing her skirt and settling in. She’s never done this before. Sure, she has been out with guys, and sure, she had a handful of flings in uni, but she’d never done _this_ \- approach a guy out of the blue and drag him off into the night. Then again, something about Arthur feels different than those supervised garden strolls with bland gentlemen or rebellious nights bookended by NDAs. Arthur feels real. 

And he comes bearing wine.

“I’ve got,” Arthur pauses to lift the bottle, trying to read it in the dim light. “Some sort of Californian Chardonnay.” He sits down across from her and pours them a glass each. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about wine.”

“I know a hell of a lot less than I should,” she laughs, bending over the table between them to grab a glass and take a slow sip. “But it sounds promising.” 

They drink systematically for the next hour, splitting the bottle, neither wanting to chance forgetting a moment of the night. It’s much quieter in this corner than the rest of the club, quiet enough that they can have an actual conversation. 

“So, Catherine, yeah?” he says, eyeing her over the top of his glass. The music switches to something heavy and fast, and the crowd cheers. 

“Yes?” she teases, swirling her wine - it’s good, he has a good instinct. 

“Why’d you, you know, storm my dressing room and take me out?” he asks through his thick eyelashes, not bothering to be subtle in the slightest. 

“Well, you’re very attractive, obviously,” she deadpans. He rolls his eyes, he probably gets that all the time, and she can practically see his guard inching back up. She can’t allow that. “But that’s not it, really,” Catherine covers. “Watching you perform… there’s something electric to you that I have never in my life seen before. The way you move and speak with such conviction is something close to magic.”

That was a lot to admit all at once, but it’s also the truth. He’s smiling now, a lopsided grin that she desperately wants to kiss. It stretches to his eyes, lighting them up in the darkness, all shine and shadows in the club lights. 

She smiles, continuing. “Why did you come with me?”

“I didn’t think I had much of a choice in the matter, for starters. You seemed very convicted,” he explains. He talks with his hands, gestures with his glass for emphasis. Strikingly, she knows she wants to hear him tell stories. “Also, it’s not often the crown princess practically accosts me in a closet.”

She scoffs, holding her free hand to her chest in mock offense. “I did not _accost_ you!” 

“Damn near!” Arthur laughs. He slows. “Besides, you seemed brilliant, not to mention genuine. It’s not often I meet someone like that. I wanted to know more about you.” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but she would almost swear he’s blushing. 

Hmm. Maybe the electric feeling was mutual after all. 

“I’m sure you already know a fair bit about me. Everyone seems to,” Catherine sobers. They’re going to have to get past the whole Princess of Wales part of this at some point, and she’d rather get it over with. 

With aristocrats, she knew what she was getting into, but with him, well. She isn’t quite sure what to expect. What she wants is a person who accepts the princess but stays for the woman behind the title. But she knows she may never get that kind of honest happiness - years of heartbreak and lost chances have taught her to believe that true unconditional love doesn’t exist outside of children’s tales. She doesn’t want to fall any deeper if this isn’t going to work. 

“Do you keep up?” she continues. “With news about my family, I mean?” 

She has a very complex relationship with the media; the coverage is generally nice and fine and expected, but she hates people thinking they know her when all they really know is what the papers were allowed to publish. Catherine, Princess of Wales is very different from Catherine, twenty-four-year-old Ph.D. candidate, elder sister, and devoted pusher of her individual agenda. 

He’s listening intently, face neutral - by the looks of it he is taking her seriously, either unbothered or accepting of her sincerity. “I keep up with the big things, of course, births, deaths, and marriages, and the like,” Arthur ponders. “I don't keep up with the tabloids much, I feel it’s quite… invasive. They can’t help but paint you and your family in a good light most of the time, at least from where I see it, but it does seem to be a bit much at times.”

She wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted to hear - she didn’t want to be with an avid royal watcher, that’s for sure - but his answer felt as close to perfect as she could get. She tells him as much. “That’s a very good answer,” Catherine levels with him. “I generally don’t mind them, but they write some nasty things sometimes.” 

“Well,” Arthur shrugs. “Most of it is foolish and you can tell it’s faked. The rest hasn’t scared me away from you yet.” He smiles at her, the gleam reaching his eyes. Oh. He thinks he’s clever. 

Well, he’s not wrong. That’s very smooth. She smiles back, and an air of grace eases over the table, putting them in their own little world for just a moment. It feels good. 

Catherine is blushing, or maybe it’s the wine. “Okay, enough of that,” she declares, literally waving the topic away as she sits forward in anticipation. “Tell me about yourself, quickfire, go. Make a game out of it.” 

He corrects his posture, and she resists the urge to tell him this isn’t an interview. Well, maybe it is. She can’t afford to harbor high hopes. But based on the way he’s smiling at her, he doesn’t mind this game. 

“Oh my, well, way to put me on the spot,” Arthur jokes nervously, eyes flitting to the side. “Alright. My name is Arthur Fox, I’m twenty-five, from Guildford. My mum owns a hair shop, my dad is a teacher. I’m the third of four siblings - I’ve got two old brothers and a younger sister. I went to LAMDA and have been performing ever since. I’ve mostly found work on the West End, but I prefer going through the RSC,” he concludes, taking a drink as he waits for her response.

She hums in overdone consideration. “What does your dad teach?” she wonders, genuinely curious. 

“Maths,” he makes a face. “I’ve never been very good at it myself.” 

“Me neither,” she shrugs, animated. “And, your poor sister, with three older brothers?” 

Arthur laughs. “We’re probably too much, yeah. But Val gets by, and she sure as hell knows how to put up with us.” 

“I suppose so. I’ve only ever been the eldest, and I haven’t got any brothers, so I wouldn’t know,” she says lightly. 

He pours more wine for them both, emptying the bottle. “What about you?” Arthur asks. 

She cocks her head. “What?”

“Tell me about yourself? Like you’re somebody I’ve never heard of before.”

This is certainly new and interesting. She leans back in contemplation, crossing her legs like she’s not supposed to. “Let’s see, how’d you do it?” Catherine smiles. “My name is Catherine Mountchristen-Windsor, I’m twenty-four, and I’m from London. My mother is the Queen, and my dad, well, he’s the prince consort and does what my mum tells him to.” Arthur smiles and nods, playing along like he didn’t know all this before. It’s refreshing, having someone not act like they already know everything there is to know about her. “I’m the eldest of three girls. I studied English at Cambridge, and now I’m working on my doctorate through the University of London.” 

He mocks her earlier behavior as he pretends to consider all she said, scratching his chin absently. “Mmm, I’ve heard better,” he settles, and they both laugh. “What _does_ your father do, honestly?”

“Honestly? He does do what my mother asks of him. Usually running about from appearance to appearance, putting ‘Prince Philip, Duke of Gloucester’ on the fronts of buildings and the names of foundations. The occasional state visit or tour,” she gestures generally to encompass everything. “You know, standard things.”

“Standard things, of course,” Arthur smiles, unfiltered. “What are you doing for your doctorate?”

“I’m doing an author-based study of Shakespeare,” Catherine starts, and now that she’s going there’s no stopping her. “My dissertation is primarily focused around how Shakespeare dramatized real historical people and events for his contemporary audience, and how that has impacted popular interpretation since,” Catherine rambles, slightly ashamed. “Hence, _Henry V_.”

Usually when she starts talking about literature, someone rolls their eyes when they think she can’t see, willing her to shut up. Arthur is only looking on quietly, something comforting in his relaxed eyes that she can’t quite lay a finger on. 

Something blooms in her chest, soft and exciting and new, and she hopes her eyes are shining just as brightly in return. He deserves to get some warmth for all that he gives off. 

“You’re really putting that English degree to good use,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Studying Shakespeare as an excuse to go watch pretty boys say fancy words before you sweep them away into the night. I thought _you_ were supposed to be seduced by _me_ , Catherine.” 

She’s not going to let him get away with that comment, no matter how much it is working. Either way, they’ve both been laying it on thick and know it. Maybe it’s time for something new. 

“Are you just using my name often because I’m letting you?” she deflects, leaning forward, elbow on her crossed leg and chin in her hand. 

He shrugs airily and sets down his empty glass, refusing to take the bait. “Maybe. And you’ve got a lovely name, it should be used.” 

Oh yeah. She can work with this, with him. “Well, Arthur Fox,” she offers out her hand, palm down and ready. He takes it happily, letting her pull them to stand. “Dance with me?”

\- - -

He leads her down the shockingly grand staircase and out onto the crowded dance floor, any thought of conversation soon drowned out by Diana Ross’s screaming vocals. Catherine feels decidedly out of place for a moment in her dress, the sweetheart neckline and sheer cap sleeves at least four decades out of style among the neon and denim. Whatever, it’s a black dress, it’s timeless. Call it vintage. Besides, no one is watching. 

She pushes the thought away, following Arthur’s lead until they find their own little bubble on the crowded floor, sandwiched between nameless and faceless people she’ll forget before the morning. 

There’s a beat between songs before “Uptown Girl” fades into full volume, and Catherine closes her eyes, sighing, before losing herself in the music. She opens her eyes, looks up, and dances. 

It isn’t often that Catherine is properly able to forget herself - it took her years to learn to ask for what she wants, let alone what she needs. A chance to escape even for only a minute, a chance to become no one in a crowd of everyone, will forever be a golden moment she won’t let go of before she’s lived it out for all it’s worth. So she can’t help but fall into the music, tentatively raising her arms and moving her feet as she sways to the beat, lost in her bubble, watching the colors flash off the walls and the people around her. She can dance ballroom flawlessly - waltz and foxtrot and even tango until day turns into night - but this, with no rules and no positions or outfits… this is what it feels like to be free. A slight laugh bursts out of her before she remembers- 

She’s not alone anymore. 

Arthur’s gone still, looking at her with something crossed between astonishment and pure adoration, eyes blown wide and shining. His lips part like he’s about to say something, but-

“You cannot just stand there,” Catherine slows, nearly shouting over the music. “Are we or are we not here to dance?”

He laughs, head thrown back, and she merely grabs his hands and pulls him to her with a smile. 

And so they dance, finding a rhythm together. They start slow, dancing together but apart, held close by their joined hands. He twirls her around, jokingly, and she spins with perfect form back into his chest, laughing up at him. Eventually his hands find their way to her waist, and she reaches to drape her forearms over his shoulders; they could have been waltzing, but this proximity would have been highly frowned upon. 

She smirks, and blue eyes meet hazel before she’s spinning herself around in his arms, slotting her back against his chest and nestling his arms around her. They move together, not an inch of space between them, but still not quite close enough. At some point she looks over her shoulder to find him looking down at her, mouth tipped into a smile. She waits as his eyes flit to her lips. He looks into her eyes, however, and gets the memo. _Not yet_. They’ll have plenty of time. 

Arthur smiles that charming smile and spins her out again, showing her off, never letting her go too far. 

People leave the dance floor, and new crowds come on, but they stay steady. Song after song after song, they dance and flirt and laugh the night away, and Catherine forgets what it’s like to have ever felt unloved. 

They’re interrupted when the drums vanish, leaving them in messy silence. A high bell rings out from the stage and a collective groan echoes from the thinning crowd. Somebody shouts in protest from the edge of the floor, and the music slowly comes back up. 

“Sorry, what does that mean?” Catherine asks, stilled. His hands are still on her waist, she’s having a hard time focusing. 

“It’s the last call bell,” Arthur explains. “Ten or fifteen minutes, then the place is closed.” 

Shit. She doesn’t want to let him go. 

They fall back into their rhythm one more time, her hands on his chest, his arms around her waist, pretending the night is never going to end, even when the last song hits. Frankie Valli carries on: 

_Don't bring me down, I pray_  
_Oh, pretty baby_  
_Now that I've found you, stay_  
_And let me love you, baby_  
_Let me love you_

\- - -

They make their way down the long hall and out into the wild, collecting their coats and her purse at the door. 

The sidewalk is nearly empty and the dark night air is brisk, whipping her hair into her face and instantly freezing her sweaty skin. She clutches her peacoat tighter around her middle, wishing she’d remembered gloves, when an arm settles around her shoulders. And, well, okay, that will certainly do. 

“Are you alright?” Arthur asks, looking down at her with mild amusement written in the crinkles around his eyes. 

“Oh, I’m great,” she replies, leaning into his shoulder as they walk down the sidewalk. “Cold, but you’re helping.” 

They walk in silence back the way they came, with no real destination in mind. This is a turning point, where the chips start to fall. To continue or not to continue. Someone has to make a decision. 

Between the glow of the streetlamps, she is once again reminded of how many questionable decisions she has made in the past few hours. Running off alone, sneaking around town with a boy she’s known for maybe six hours. Yeah. Good job Catherine, way to be a picture-perfect princess. 

Arthur has similar thoughts. “How much trouble are you going to be in for tonight?” he asks, tone polite. 

“I suppose it depends on who finds out,” she hums. “It likely won’t be too bad. Whatever happens, this has definitely been worth it.” It has been worth it - the night has been fun, more fun than she’s had in years. Even the dancing was easily outshined by the company. 

“Your flattery is astonishing,” he chuckles. He glances at her, mischief playing in his eyes. “Do you want to get into more trouble?”

She really shouldn’t- nevermind. “Always. What do you have in mind?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she’s almost afraid she’s scared him off before he speaks, “I’m not entirely sure, actually.” His steps slow just a touch. “I was expecting you to say no.” 

Oh. “Well, I said yes, and I’ve got an idea actually,” she flips around out from under his arm, taking his hands. “There’s this little twenty-four-hour cafe in South Kensington - it’s got the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had, but I’m afraid it’s quite a walk.” 

He’s smiling, lamplight reflecting off his hair. “I don’t mind a walk if you don’t. Besides, I’d feel bad if I didn’t walk you home,” he says. “Or, well, as close to your home as I can get without being arrested.”

They turn and start back in the other direction. The usual Central London tourist traffic has long since retired, leaving only pairs of stragglers here and there to stumble home between the ancient buildings. She’s never seen London as beautiful as it is in the late spring starlight. It’s nearly an hour’s walk at their slow pace, but holding his hand the whole way, Catherine doesn’t feel unsafe for even a second. 

Catherine and Arthur fall in and out of easy conversation, the energy they’ve spent all night finally catching up to them. They talk more about his job, her research. Favorite places in the city, opinions on Joni Mitchell, and, amusingly, why jeans should be allowed in the royal fashion code. She runs him through a fierce essay-length review of _Return of the Jedi_ , and he returns the favor by spending five minutes on a playful rant about the Americanization of the film industry. 

Arthur is amazingly attentive and ready to contribute to any topic that arises, even if the only two cents he has to offer turn out to be thoughtful questions. It seems as though he’s always thinking about something, processing and filing away for later use. She learns that he can joke all day but that when the topic is serious he talks carefully, taking his time so that what he says is always honest and full of heart. He knows a fair bit about most things, from film to chess to sailing. If she had to guess, he picked acting so he can lose himself and be a little bit of everything at least once. The attention can’t hurt either - he is warm and receptive and steady, a natural people person. 

She talks too, of course, first about her books and work ideas and well-formed opinions on wine, but soon she finds herself admitting things she hasn’t said aloud in years. They talk about the joyous torment of younger sisters, and she finds herself telling him about being a kid, how her peers would either ostracize her or pretend to be her friend until the allure wore off, how she tried to protect her sisters but know that they suffered the exact same way. He nods and only squeezes her hand tighter. He never looks away. 

They make it to South Kensington and in and out of the cafe in one piece - the little hole-in-the-wall is Catherine’s favorite spot for a drink, and she is big enough to admit that she has dragged a PPO out of Kensington at three in the morning on several occasions just so she could sit in a corner booth with a book and a double shot espresso, the whole cafe her private sanctuary. The regular barista is not shocked to see Catherine at this hour but is surprised to find her with a man at her side. Arthur laughs at his probing questions, and charms him into not saying a word to anyone about seeing them together. Catherine shrugs, mouth aching from smiling so much, pays for two large hot chocolates, and they’re on their way. The doorbell tolls on their way out. 

They cross the street and walk south to the V&A, turning the corner so they can sit on the cascading steps ahead of the main entrance. With barely any traffic on the street and hardly a soul on the sidewalk she feels almost at peace. 

The grand arched entrance to the museum stands guard behind them as they sip their drinks, side-by-side, pressed together shoulders to thighs against the early morning air. She takes the opportunity to slip her aching feet out of her heels.

Suddenly, Catherine gasps, pivoting to Arthur next to her. “Oh no, it’s Thursday, isn’t it?” 

“That’s… true,” he supplies, looking down at her with mild bemusement. He’s got one hand on his drink, the other in hers. “What’s Thursday?”

“You’ve got a performance tonight, haven’t you, and I’ve just kept you out until sunrise,” she says, genuinely concerned. 

Arthur laughs with his head thrown back, clear and deep. “Yes, I do. But I’m flexible, I’ll head home or to the theatre and collapse for a few hours. I’ll be good as new,” he assures, glancing at the sidewalk ahead of them and then back to her, honest hazel eyes glowing gold. “Staying out was maybe a poor professional decision, but it was a fantastic personal one.” 

She shakes her head, grinning up at him. “It was also a very reckless decision,” she stresses. 

“Says you,” he teases, elbowing her gently. “There’s no way that anything you’ve done tonight is remotely acceptable to those with authority.” 

He’s right, of course. Best not to let him know. “Oh, so I’ve got no authority?” she jokes, watching and hoping he’ll smile at her again. 

He does, bright and crooked and beautiful, looking back out at the steps. “You know what I mean.”

The pair fall into a pleasant silence, together but off in their own worlds. The street is gorgeous - the sun is just beginning to peek above the horizon, and city birds are beginning to gather to pick at rocks on the sidewalk, high chirps mingling with the distant traffic. 

The night is winding to a close, literally and figuratively, leaving their antics in the past and introducing sobering stillness in the dawn. They’re on the steps of a centuries-old building, looking into the face of something new. Once again, they’re faced with a turning point. 

Catherine wonders how it feels so easy. She wonders if it always could. 

She rests her head on his arm. “I’m glad you weren’t done with me after the club closed,” Catherine whispers like it’s some grand secret. 

He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. Finally, he releases a deep sigh and looks at her, sober. “I’m not sure I could ever be done with you.”

“I-” she stops, sitting up straight. That’s it, isn’t it? He’s got the whole thing down to one sentence. 

They shouldn’t be here, logically, no stars in the universe would have aligned to bring them to this place and time together if they hadn’t bent the cosmos by the force of their own free will. This shouldn’t have happened. But it did and they’re here, now, and she doesn’t want to go home without him. She wants to do this again - not the night out per se but the talking, the joy and the laughter, the complete companionship. He listens, and he spins tales, and he’s charming, and he makes her feel, well. He makes her feel loved. And she wants to make him feel the same; even if she can only bring him a fraction of the peace he’s brought her in one night, she’ll stop at nothing to do it. 

“I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this at ease around someone,” she tests. The soft look in his eyes is back, and Catherine can’t help but stare as she continues. “Tonight, it’s as though the world slowed down, if only for a moment, and everything was good just because it could be, not because it was supposed to be.” 

He laughs lightly, breath fogging in the space between them. “I was wrong about using that degree as an excuse to pick up boys, your own words are much more compelling,” he says. Yet he doesn’t give her time to recalibrate before he states, plainly: “We’re not supposed to be together.” 

Catherine’s smile stops dead, all hopeful thoughts and ambitions washed away and replaced with cold emptiness. She studies him, but she can’t quite read the slight way his mouth pinches. “You don’t mean that, do you?” 

He catches his mistake. “I mean, with all the forces working against us,” he explains, looking back at her apologetically. “We must have broken a dozen rules and had a dozen more bad ideas to get here.” 

She nearly cries in relief, letting out a breath. “At least, yeah.”

“But I want to see you again, if it’s even possible. It’s just… you’re unbelievably kind, and gorgeous of course, but you’re also so _real_. You’ve got depth like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Arthur laughs a little under his breath, shaking his head. “I know this is a lot at once, and I barely know you, but it is how I feel. Shut me up if I’m out of line.”

Her face hurts from smiling. “I want to see what we can be too,” Catherine assures. “Forget the odds and the barriers and all that. Here,” she reaches into her purse for her pen and notebook, popping off the cap and gingerly scribbling her phone number. She rips out the page and sticks it in his jacket pocket. “That’s my personal line, you won’t get anyone but me.” 

“Thank you,” he says, slowly raising a hand to his pocket, doing very well to take everything in stride. He makes eye contact, a wishful smile spreading across his entire face, asking, nonchalantly, “So I take it I’ll be seeing you again then?” 

She looks at him: six feet of second chances bundled in a gray coat on the steps of her favorite place, a smirk on his lips like he already knows the answer. 

This is the person she’s investing herself in. This is her choice. 

Catherine scoffs. “Yes, you ridiculous man.”

Having spent enough time waiting, she reaches up to wrap one hand in his collar, pulling him down into a kiss. 

The sun rises over the steps of the V&A, and looking back, Catherine cannot pinpoint what brought her to Arthur’s door, what caused him to agree, what they were thinking when they dropped everything and ran. Maybe it began as a way to spite her mother, and sneaking off was purely irrational, but she knows somewhere in the base of her soul that being with him is more than a series of poor choices. It’s right. Something in her slotted into place when he looked at her, as though there was some divine law of the universe drawing them towards each other. He makes joy blossom with every smile and brings warmth merely by existing on her arm, and she simply had no choice but to gravitate towards him, everything she should be doing and everyone she should be loving be damned. 

Looking into his fiery eyes, she finds that she’s no longer afraid to fly too close to the sun. 


	2. Epilogue: The Next Morning

**Epilogue: The Next Morning**  
**May 31, 1984**  
**Kensington Palace**

Catherine brushes her hands through her damp hair as she pads down the long hall to the dining room. 

Unsurprisingly, she finds both of her sisters at breakfast, Alice still in her loose fleece pajamas and Sarah fully-dressed with her hair trapped in a towel. Alice gives her a knowing look as she slides into the room, but Catherine only smiles and shakes her head. 

“Oh my god,” Sarah looks up from her newspaper, flicking it shut dramatically. “The prodigal child returns.” Alice must have filled their middle sister in at some point in the night. They always ended up knowing all of each other’s secrets anyway, it was only a matter of time before the trio was on the same page. 

“I’ve spent one night out, and suddenly I’m the prodigal child?” Catherine jokes. She takes her time, grabbing an apple from a platter before sitting next to Sarah, across from Alice. “That’s hardly fair.” 

“How was it?” Alice butts in, leaning across the wooden table. The place in front of her is clear - she’s already eaten, apparently only staying to wait for Catherine’s triumphant return. “You _did_ run off with the hot actor, right? I did not cover you only for you to do anything less. How good was the sex?” 

Sarah pointedly focuses on aggressively smothering her toast in butter. “Catherine Mountchristen-Windsor, it is a _Thursday_.” 

She smirks. “Can I not get dicked down on a Thursday?” 

“ _Catherine_.” 

“Only kidding.”

“So what _did_ you do?” Alice probes, redirecting. “I need details.”

“Well,” Catherine begins. “As soon as you left I bombarded him in his dressing room. We danced at the Café de Paris for hours, and after they closed, we grabbed cocoa from that shop off Prince Consort.” she gushes. 

Alice watches with her head perched in her hands, beaming. “And then?” Sarah smiles, curiously getting the best of her. 

She sighs, not caring about how foolish she may look. “And then at the end of the night, I gave him my number on a paper from my favorite journal and kissed him goodnight in the sunrise on the steps of the V&A.” 

Her sisters aww at her, beaming warmly. “Is he as nice as he looked?” Alice asks lightly. 

“Yes,” Catherine tells her. “He was kind, and funny, and romantic, and he never made me feel out of place. The whole night, I felt as though I did not have to be anyone but myself.”

Alice squeals. “So, I assume we are to be seeing more of him soon?”

“Alright, alright, I apologize,” Sarah surrenders. “That’s adorable. Does this man have a name?” 

Catherine looks down, spinning her signet ring around her pinky and smiling, a warmth filling her chest. “His name is Arthur Fox,” she announces, looking at each of her sisters in turn. “And yes, I believe I shall be seeing a great deal more of him soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading to the end! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
